I'm a huge fan of Wallace Stevens, Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, Robert Burns to name a few. My clumsy doggerel can perhaps best described by yearning:
If the bards had tongues of silver
Five hundred years ago,
Then why can't mine be made of gold
And wonders to the people show?
I'd spin for them such tales
As never come to mind -
Of love, betrayal, loyalty -
They'd leave their world behind.
Out of the mist and the grey-green wood
With its tow’ring boughs and leafy hood,
Came a rider with sword and spear of stone
And a harp strung with maiden’s hair and framed in bone.
He paused on the crest of a cloudy hill
Then down through the mist to the town ‘cross the rill.
Plucked at his harpstrings as he rode thru the town:
High strings, low strings sang like wolves and wild hounds.
What do you do in an irony of a thousand words
Pressed by the hands of a mob?
In obscurity lie the incandenscent brilliances of undiscovered genius.
Far from the sheep; farther from the shepherd,
Lost in hills that are vain in their greenery,
Caring only for the observance of souls.
I have passed the epiphany of wine
And emerged on its other side.
